Letters Bound in Pink Ribbon
by Unamused Elipsis
Summary: France reflects on feelings of solitude he faces and how the other nations treat him. Eventually, he composes a letter to Canada expressing his feelings but hides it. Canada, sensing the clear difference between Francis emotions and action, confronts him
1. Contemplation

Francis drank deeply from the glass of wine, as he ate the last of his dinner alone. Alone, it was such an unusual thing for him before, but he found himself doing it more and more of late. Spain had invited him out to drink, but the joyful response had died on his lips. Of course, Romano had made it more than clear that he didn't like it when Spain spent time with Francis. He watched Romano's arms cross over his chest and the scowl creep across his face.

"Oh no, you see, I can't. So many things to do you know?" had been his response. In reality, he'd spent the night alone. Alone, was becoming more and more the norm. He envied Spain; he had someone to come home to after the alcohol had rendered him useless. Unable to stand, he'd call and Lovino would come, grumbling, securely grab the older man by the waist, draping the noodle-like arm over his shoulders, and take him home. The same was true whenever Prussia joined them out in the taverns and pubs. Little Ludi would come and roughly throw his brother over his shoulder, derriere in the air, apologize for any possibly offensive things that were said, and wish everyone a good night. Francis was always the last one to head home on his own.

Francis sighed deeply staring at the ceiling and closing his eyes. At his core, he was a lover. A man meant to, showing permitted, love regardless of race, nationality, age or gender; once Francis found a home for his heart he was committed. The problem at this moment being that his heart had no home, and no amount of sexual innuendo, flirting or faking would change that. He had...someone he wanted...but...

Suddenly something soft landed on his face. Pierre, his first bird, had decided that Francis's eye socket was an acceptable place to roost. The bird pecked his nose insistently and made a noise similar to broken glass in a garbage disposal.

The blonde man daintily picked up the bird and saw that on his leg was a small note.

_Francis,_

_Please, don't spend the night drinking alone again, it makes us worry. You should visit someone. All work and drunken stupors make Francis a dull boy._

_~Antonio_

Francis balled up the message and threw it across the room. Someone? Someone? Someone like who? Who didn't loathe him for no real reason except that he was warm with everyone? Who wouldn't open the door and greet him with a scowl and 'what do you want?' Who would he not have to force a smile for after a greeting like that?

There was one person who would, but, no, that, he mustn't. He couldn't show up in that place! Yet….Francis got up and walked over to his desk setting down his wine. He riffle through the drawers looking for pen and paper.

"Pierre you will want to rest up because this one is going to be a long journey."

Matthew laid in bed arms wrapped tightly around his small white bear. The sun streamed across his eyes making his already blurred vision worse. He rolled onto his back pushing covers from his body. He'd left the heat on too high. His plan had been to spend the day in bed, but obviously that wasn't going to happen. He'd had a long day, the day before shoveling show out from the front of his house. The muscles in his body still complained and ached from the use and strain. He absentmindedly unbuttoned his sleep shirt letting the air refresh his sweat soaked skin. He rubbed his aching chest and shoulders trying to relieve the tension.

Just as the young man was beginning to drift off to sleep under his own ministrations, he heard a repeated clicking sound near his face. HIs eyes slowly crept open, and he concentrated on the sound. It continued as he blindly looked for his glasses and put them on his face. His arm stretched out pushing the curtains aside and peering out. There among the snow was Pierre almost completely lost in the snow except for the pink ribbon around his leg.

"Francis!" Matthew said, much louder than intended.

He quickly rolled out of bed and ran to the door.

[end section 1]

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><p><strong>Author comments: First and foremost, this story was written with one person in mind, Lou. The only reason is made it here to is because Tumblr, as amazing as it is, really didn't feel like the place for it. This is a story for her because she has been repeatedly gracious to me and allowed me to read what she has written. I believe that sharing with a stranger is a difficult thing, and I wanted her to know she wasn't the only one. She has repeatedly raised the quality of my life with her writing.<strong>

**You can find her writing at: .net/u/2289477/**

**Secondly, I have very little working knowledge of either Francis or Canada. You see that I have never really given much thought to either Francis or Canada. Francis has always felt like such a gag character—that overly stereotypical Frenchman from kid cartoons. You almost expect him to walk around with a beret and accordion.**

**Recently though, I noticed on the crawl the argument between Francis being a rapist or not. Then later the head cannon I saw where Francis just states that he want someone to love. I mentally reviewed all the things I "knew were true" and put things together. I say that in quotation marks because I recognize that my "true" things are a cocktail of cannon, fan fiction fannon, and doujinshi fannon.**

**In the end, I think that Francis is very well put together, maybe even on the verge of classy, and very, very lonely.**

**Thirdly, I don't own anything. Don't sue me.**

**Fourthly, this thing is raw. No beta reader, no nothing. So I apologize for any breaks in tone or failures of characterization. If you'd like comment after reading, if not then that's fine to since I'm only really writing for one person.**

**Very Respectful Regards,**

**U.E.**

**11-16-11 P.S. I've gotten some questions about my inconsistent naming of the nation/human name persuasion. It's symbolic guys ****J**** Think on it and figure it out—which will be very hard to do in the first chapter, wait a few more, or once it's over ask. **


	2. Exertion

Just as the young man was beginning to drift off to sleep under his own ministrations, he heard a repeated clicking sound near his face. His eyes slowly crept open, and he concentrated on the sound. It continued as he blindly looked for his glasses and put them on his face. His arm stretched out pushing the curtains aside and peering out. There among the snow was Pierre almost completely lost in the snow except for the pink ribbon around his leg.

"France!" Matthew said, much louder than intended.

He quickly rolled out of bed, ran down the stairs, and to the door.

Even though it was cold enough to keep a several inches of snow on the ground for multiple consecutive days, Matthew flung himself against the front door and ran out the door shirt open and shoeless.

"Pierre? What are you doing here? It's so far away!"

Pierre weakly flapped toward Matthew before making an emergency crash landing in a snow pile just short of the young man. Matthew hurriedly dug him out of the snow and brought him into the house. The blonde boy walked to the kitchen, picking up a dish towel to wrap the bird in. The youth quickly undid the ribbon and took his message before inspecting the messenger. Pierre's wings had a light coating of frost, and he huddled down into the cotton once Matthew set him on the counter.

Matthew unraveled the letter quickly almost tearing it in half as he spread it out on the counter with eager hands.

_Petit,_

Mon oiseau semble avoir perdu son chemin. Je vous serais très reconnaissant si vous me permettez de venir le réclamer, comme le voyage de retour peut le tuer. Il serait également acceptable pour vous l'amener à moi, si votre horaire le permet.

Amour et dévotion,

_F.B.*_

Matthew read and reread the letter several times. The scrawling, glorious penmanship didn't cause nearly the confusion the author's word choice did. "Lost its way?" hadn't France obviously sent him? "allow me to come claim him," "equally acceptable for you to bring him to me." "if your schedule permits," what was this? Matthew's brow furrowed in concern, what was wrong with him? Matthew stepped back and allowed the paper to return to its original cylindrical shape. He twirled the ribbon around his index finger thoughtfully.

Wait, wait, he'd said "Little One" was it, was it a flirtation? "Love and Devotion?" Matthew's stomach grew cold pondering the question. Was Francis trying to be coy in saying that his bird had gotten lost? What did it mean? Well it obviously meant that Francis wanted to see him, but why? He shivered at the thought of someone _wanting to see him_. He unconsciously brought the ribbon to his lips and in inhaled. The faint smell of a blush wine and the essence of roses clung to the it. Was it meant to be a joke to open the lines of communication? What kind of conversation?

When was the last time he'd spoken with France? It was now, what, nearing mid-December? Matthew had visited America for Thanksgiving, but France never went to that. He thought the food was beneath him, at least that's what he said. He'd seen him at the Halloween party at America's place, but they hadn't really spoken. And before then?

The young blonde leaned against the stove, eyes downcast in introspection. How many times had he picked up the phone staring at Francis' phone number? How many times had he started an e-mail? What was he suppose to say? 'Hi, I want to see you. Oh, no special reason.' Why was it so hard to just speak to him? He knew he couldn't bare Francis answer the phone and not be able to hear him. How could he endure not only sounding pitiful but also not even being heard?

Matthew shook his head slightly. Wasn't he getting ahead of himself? For all he knew France merely wanted some company because Spain and Prussia were unable to entertain him. Or worse yet, he needed an ear to listen to the last "great wrong" that England had subjected him to…but what if….what if….no obviously not, it was just a social visit. The young man shook his head roughly and spoke aloud, 'Time to run.' He'd deal with the letter once he returned from his run.

He picked up Pierre and climbed the stairs to his room. He placed him lightly on his polar bear's stomach as he changed clothes. Matthew caught his reflection in the mirror on the back of his bedroom door. He studied the swell of his shoulders, the build of his chest, the leanness of his waist, and wondered if anyone could guess his physique.

He dressed silently, thinking back to his days as a soldier. America and England might have seen him a few times without a shirt, but that was so long ago that he doubted they remembered. On top of he time that had passed, they might not have noticed at the time. Matthew took a special pride in his body because although he didn't enjoy fighting, should a day come when he needed to, he would.

Unbidden his mind called up images of Francis in various states of undress. While Matthew was all muscle, a concealed fortress, Francis was the complete opposite. True, while Canada had been under France's influence young Matthew and Francis had spent a great deal of time together. Francis had always been caring towards Alfred and Matthew in their youth, but the European took "comfort in your own skin" to another level. Matthew could easily recall the older man's lithe form, lacking real definition and toning, but as he moved there was an unspoken confidence and flexibility, it was almost as if liquid had taken residence in his body in place of bone, so fluid was his motion. The line of his hips always slipping mockingly over the side of his pants as he walked. The predominate V drawing the eye lower and lower until...

Matthew's breath came a little faster. The broad shoulder were so commanding, so dominate. The way his colar bone protruded and accented the ascension of his neck to his jaw, peppered with beard. The hallow of that neck so inviting, the pulse causing the skin to flutter just so. The young man allowed his mind to swim through speculations of Francis' near naked body, his own naked body, their naked bodies, entwined, caressing

'I wonder if he'd like my body...' he thought licking his lips.

He blushed furiously and decided to continue getting ready.

He slipped into his hood, sweatpants and running shoes silently turning over France's words. What did it mean? He knew he could just come over didn't he? The older man must have known that the door was always open to him. He stretched halfheartedly and left the room.

He ran, ran hard, ran to aliviate the frustration and confusion. Why did he act that way? Why didn't anyone else see it? As he reached the end of the side walk, he leaped off the curb, hurting his ankle in the landing, yet he ran through the pain. Each time his sneakered foot made contact with the pavement, he put a force that jarred his bones; rather then gently hoping over the next curb he leapt onto it. Harder, harder more.

He'd started easily enough, a nice jogg like any other day. His light springing step carrying him easily over the concerete. Long years of practice making it easy to run on the moist sidewalk. As he ran, he rolled searched for the meaning of France's words. His mind rolled over and over possible meanings. Matthew frowned deeply as he pondered the issue. They were like night and day. France would step into a room and demand the attention of all parties, bragging about fashion, art, and food. Matthew could walk into a room, unnoticed, spend hours attempting to start conversations with people, be ignored, and leave without so much as a parting word. Then the next day someone trying to be polite would ask why he hadn't made it out.

How many times had he just sat there and stared at people? How many secrets had he learned by accident just by being unnoticed? He had the privilege of seeing who people really were because they forgot he was there. He'd seen the _real_ Italy when Feliciano Vargas, the seducer, had whispered in Ludwig's ear. The confident German mask had slipped from it's sticking place as pink creep from beneath Ludwig's collar to his ears and cheeks. England, the criticizing stuffed shirt, only truly revealed Arthur when tending to America. On more than one occasions he'd seen Arthur provide a pen when America wasn't looking or push an obstacle out of the way that would have otherwise injured the younger country. Matthew had walked in on Alfred once about half an hour before a meeting as he sat in all the chairs to make sure that England would have the most comfortable one.

And what about Francis? Who was Francis? This had been the question that had changed the morning's spring-stepped jog to an unchecked, pavement punishing dash.

France the center of attention, France the one who could happily and easily jump into any conversation, France the one who had roses for every one, even if they only had rejection and harsh words for him, France the one always willing to give advice on love when anyone needed it, and no one had the decency to thank him, France who was always, always smiling.

Hands curled into tight fists, jaw clenched, breathing unchecked, Matthew's eyes clouded. He knew who France was. France was upfront, so why hadn't he just aksed to vist Matthew? France wouldn't have even asked; he would have just stormed the home. France would have made himself at home before Canada could even greet him.

Tears spilled out over onto the boy's cheeks.

Francis was the man who would fold his hands neatly on the table and look down as England rained down insults.

Francis was the man whose mouth slowly slipped from an unsurpassable smile into a deep set frown.

Francis was the man who force France's charming smile whenever he knew someone was looking.

Matthew ran as hard as he could. Faster, faster, harder-he ran flat out, and as his snow slipped on a patch of ice, he just managed to fall on to the snow.

Matthew knew Francis was the one who wept.

And as Matthew laid in the snow, breath coming in ragged gulps, he sobbed, tears crystalizing on his cheeks.

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><p><em>Little One,<em>

_My bird seems to have lost its way. I would be most grateful if you would allow me to come claim him, as the return journey may kill him. It would be equally acceptable for you to bring him to me, if your schedule permits._

_Loving devotion,_

**_Author's Note: This time around it's from Mattie's perspective. I hope you enjoyed this chapter, and that you remain for following chapters. My goal is to try to update at least once a week, but who can say what will or will not happen._**

**_Some people may question my choices with Matthew, but I believe that Matthew is a very strong person-similar to France's strength. It's a strength that puts the needs of others first and has no fear in suffering a bit in order to protect others. I hope to develop the idea of this strength as the narrative continues. Thank you for your reviews and messages_**

**_U.E._**


	3. Escapism

**_Dearest Matthew,_**

**_I have too long lived with my feelings for you in solitude. For centuries I have thought of as the pure unadulterated vision of my love…._**

The icy porcelain tile sent a shock of pain through Francis' body, as he forces his mind to come awake. The warm water hit the crown of his head mercilessly, commanding him to bow his heavy head. Leaning forward, his weight resting on his hands shoulder width apart, he exhales deeply. The scalding water flows and overtime, awakenens every pore in his body. He licks his lips, and allows his mind to wander-to review the things that needed doing. Some shopping, was there any bread from last night? The washing, of course, since….

He snaps his eyes closed, face crumpling to a grimace as he remembers his dream. Some loving, hate-filled succubus had no doubt clung to him in sleep producing dreams that would pleasure his body while destroying his heart and soul. It was ungodly early when the heart-rendering gift had driven him from his bed. Shaken, he had stormed straight to the shower, running from the images that had filled his mind and senses. As the boiling water fell, heating his skin, he becomes aroused again. He'd dreamt of Matthew's warm skin against his, touching, kissing, bodies entwining.

**_I know that this may come as a shock, but I promise you that these are my most honest and true feelings. _**

The vision took hold of him again, but this time, he doesn't fight.

"It's 2 a.m. where Matthew is," Francis thinks, "he's in bed right now, sleeping." The naked man stands in the shower thinking of the boy. He wills himself into his fantasy. 'Matthew and I have made love all day, and now I'm showering, obviously." The man pushes away reality, fleeing the lonely apartment, the arctic shower, and slips away into his private paradise. Francis continues to construct the series of events that will lead to their encounter. "He will notice I am missing, the absence of my body heat leaving him cold and whimpering, and he will come to find me." He imagines the young man, stark naked, leaving the bed, searching for his lover.

**_I have hidden them away from you in hopes to not burden you with an old man's heart._**

"He'll come into the bathroom with trepidation, breath my name, and I'll answer. He'll draw close." He envisions Matthew's trembling hand drawing closer to the shower, just as he would have touched it, Francis commands his dream hand to reach out and pull the younger man into the bath with him. Francis smiles unabashedly at Matthew, welcoming him.

There was no escaping this vision of those angelic blue eyes staring up at him. Francis pictures the young man in front of him now, naked, shivering in the shower a bittersweet blending of blushing shyness and desire. He imagines those eyes that always haunted him, relieved of their frames. The melding of apprehensive innocence and hooded lust painted in those spheres just barely hidden under the sweep of shaggy blonde hair. The younger boy stands trembling, arms wrapped around his body shyly.

**_You, yourself, are so young and have so much of you life ahead of you. Your country is still budding and full of promise. Why would you even spare a me a second thought. _**

Francis licks his lips preparing his fantasy self to claim the lips of the other man. His hands gently take Matthew's limbs pulling them away from his body. He firmly pins the boys hands apart to either side of his head and leans forward to kiss him. Matthew blushes and dips his head to the side leaving his neck exposed to Francis' lips. There he nips and tongues the younger man's neck, forcefully pushing against the jugular close to the jaw. Small gasps emanate and rumble just beneath Francis' lips.

**_When you get this, it will no longer be a burden. It will simply be a piece of information you can acknowledge. It will be like saying, "It rained on Sunday," "Francis was in love with me, "It will be sunny Monday." and there will be no more thought in it. _**

The older man is jarred back to his bathroom reality as his heated sex brushes the cold metal of the shower knobs. His mind takes the sensory information and transforms it quickly into something much more inciting. Francis takes a step back and widens his stance, as not to be surprised again. As he does, he envisions his length rubbing up against Matthew's member. Francis' hand wanders to his ache and begins to move rhythmically.

**_I wanted you to know, now, before I allow myself to sink any further into my own depression . I have spoken with my employeer and have requested they begin looking for someone else to represent France at the next world council meeting. There is no real requirement for my presence. _**

He pleasured Matthew in pleasuring himself, this conflicted desire of wanting to climax but the need to satisfy his spectral lover consumed him. Alabaster skin stretching on underneath Francis' ministrations and Matthew's gasps echoing in Francis' mind as he drew him closer to completion.

His mind swims with all the things he wants. He wants to be close to Matthew, he wants to feel love and appreciate. His body eventually overtook the emotional needs of the man, and he thinks more and more about what Matthew's body would feel like. He wonders if Matthew had known pleasure yet, had enjoyed the bed of a lover? In his mind, his vision of Matthew whispers in his ear to be gentle with him, shaking as he offers himself to Francis. Try as he might, Francis' image of picking up the younger man is rougher than intended. He pins the blushing boy to the cold porcelain and forces his way into him.

Here reality collides with fantasy, as Francis literarily cannot imagine what it would feel like to be embraced by the person he treasurs most. Casting aside daydream and delusions, wishes and wants, Francis' hand moves faster over his length.

'Matthew," he spoke to his absent beloved, "you are most valuable, more important. I want, I want…."

His body spasamed unchecked as his essence shot out of him. He leans heavily against the porcelain tile. The hot water has long since run out and the frigid downpour punishes Francis furhter for his time ill spent in the shower. He slowly grabs his soap and washes his body in a daze, tears slowly trickling down his cheeks.

**_By the beginning of the new year I am sure that they will have found someone. The holidays afford so much time away from work, I'm sure no one will even notice when I don't return. I'm sure there will be many who are relieved that they no longer have to deal with my inappropriate behavior. _**

Soon Francis is drying himself off and staring at himself in the mirror. It's just a moment, long enough to see that his eyes are red, swollen, and have dark green and sickly yellow bags beneath them. His ribs can easily be seen from beneath his skin. He turns of the light and leaves the shower. As he walked towards his closet he noticed that his cell phone was blinking that he had one missed call and a new voicemail.

"_You have one new message. _Hey France! It's Canada. Listen, uhm, I just, well Pierre is here, and I thought you should know, since he's your bird and all. Uh, yeah so, he had a note attached to him. I was hoping that you'd, um. have time to come and pick him up tomorrow, well I guess when you get this it'll be today. If not, just call me and let me know. I can bring him if I need to. It's no trouble. I don't mind at all. Uh, okay. Call me! _If you wish to repeat this message, press 9."_

**_Please forget this as soon as possible. And thank you, thank you for always treating me with kindness. _**

Francis laid on the bed, towel draped, and drew the phone to his heart. He laid there staring at the ceiling thinking on the sleeping Matthew. He sounded congested when he called. The running in the cold no doubt or the hockey he loved so much.

Francis brought the phone up to his face and pushed the required buttons. He placed the phone close to his ear. "_You have one new message. _Hey France! It's Canada. Listen, uhm, I just, well Pierre is here, and I thought you should know, since he's your bird and all. Uh, yeah so, he had a note attached to him. I was hoping that you'd, um. have time to come and pick him up tomorrow, well I guess when you get this it'll be today. If not, just call me and let me know. I can bring him if I need to. It's no trouble. I don't mind at all. Uh, okay. Call me! _If you wish to repeat this message, press 9."_

Upon the third time listening to the message, Francis whispers replies into the darkness around him. "Mattie, yes I'm listening. I know Pierre is there. I sent him because I want to see you. I do have time, I have all the time for you. I'm so glad you called. I've been wanting to talk to you for ages." His heart moved into his throat, forcing him to swallow roughly to continue, tears threatening to return, "I wish that I was really talking to you and not just pretending now. I will call you, later today, because, right now, you're sleeping, and I don't want to wake you. Mattie, you sound sick. Are you taking care of yourself? Sleeping enough? Eating enough? Mattie...Mattie...I love you so much. I'm so happy I get to see you today."

As the voicemail came to an end, Francis forces himself from his bed and dresses silently, wiping tears from his eyes. Again, he walked toward his desk and began to pour out his feeling onto paper. The letter began with the truest words the man knew and ended with the signing of his name. After it was done, he quietly folds the letter into fours. He silently reaches into the bottom drawer of his desk and pulled out a set of letters wrapped in one of his many ribbons. These were the letters Matthew would never see. He'd written so many since Matthew had matured, but he knew that he couldn't send them. So here they remained, the letters bound in a pink ribbon for his eyes to see one day after Francis was gone. They all began the same way "Dearest Matthew" and ended the only way he know how. The newest letter, now joined to all the others, was placed to rest in the bottom drawer again, and Francis prepared things for his journey. He hoped that he would be able to arrive in Canada before breakfast. Wouldn't it be nice if he was able to provide Matthew with those pancakes and syrup he liked so much?

There in the darkness, alone, Francis did something he hadn't done in ages anywhere outside of his fantasies, he genuinely smiled.

**_My heart beats in your chest, and my soul is always just a hands reach away in your pocket._**

**_Love and devotion,_**

**_Francis Bonnefoy_**

_[section 3]_

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><p><em>Author's note: Thank you for all of you who have commented, messaged, and reviewed. I hope that you enjoy the newest episode here. The time is drawing dear for Francis and Matthew to meet! What will happen? Thank you for being patient as the story unfold, I'm a writer that enjoys characters' thoughts and feeling more than action. I'm no George deValier :) Who is so superior! In any case, I'm striving for at least one update a week, but with the holiday I was able to update a little more. Again, not beta read so if you notice anything glaring please let me know. <em>

_For your entertainment, I want to submit the pices that helped me write this chapter. _

_Francis' letter was written to this score: .com/watch?v=XfzEcbu42Io_

_The overall chapter itself was inspired by this fan art: ./tumblr_luo7ovZdm11qlbgjyo1__


	4. Collision

**Letters Bound in Pink Ribbon Chapter 4: Collision**

**_**Journal Entry for November 30th**_**

**_**I finally got the nerve to call Francis and tell him to come. Now thinking about it I'm sure that I sounded like a complete idiot. I think I repeated myself too much. I just got nervous. I'm sure I managed to make myself sound even more like a little kid. **_**

Matthew awoke to the smell of pancakes and maple syrup creeping from his kitchen. Somehow Francis had managed to let himself in and begin cooking undetected. Matthew laid in bed trying to decide what to do. Should he go down in like this? Should he try to strike a more adult figure and come downstairs fully dressed, ready for the day? Would getting dressed demand that they go out?

He lays there, conflicted, trying to decide his course of action, but soon the decision is out of his hands.

"Mattie," a familiar accented voice gently crosses the room, "Papa has brought you breakfast."

_**I wish I knew how to make him see me. Not the way that other people see me, as a quiet guy, maybe even a nice guy, but as a man. **_

"Papa" had been what Matthew had called Francis when he was a child, and now the moniker had a plethora of mixed feelings associated with it. "Big brother" had failed miserably when Matthew was very young and the "f" sound of frere was impossible and the syllable count of "brother" unfathomable.

To Francis it served as a barrier between himself and his former dependent. An "I'm an adult, and you're a child" sort of barrier; for Matthew it was another indicator that Francis didn't really see him as an equal. His own house, clothes, car, job-his own county, and Francis still insisted on calling himself Papa.

**_I...I...I know that I love him. I've loved him since I was a kid...which I guess is why all of this is so hard to think about. I use to love him like...like a father or an elder brother, but...somewhere it changed. _**

France made his way into the room placing the tray on the nightstand as Matthew sat up in bed. A leather bound journal sat under an alarm clock blinking the hour. The older man pretends not to notice it as he takes the stuffed bear and places him safely in a chair on the other side of Matthew's room.

"I see little Kumajiro is doing okay here. I can't believe you still have him."

Matthew instantly feels self conscious for holding onto the bear. It was, of course, one of his most prized possessions but having it in bed with him at this moment only strengthened the barrier between himself and Francis.

"Thank you, you really didn't need to do this. I could have made my own breakfast, and some for you too, if you had let me know you were here," Matthew says quietly, sitting up. As he uncovers his body, Francis ses that Matthew has slept in only his boxer shorts. Matthew picks up the tray and looks down at Francis.

"Really Mattie! It's much too cold for you to be sleeping in just that," He looks away, swallowing forcefully.

"It's not so cold when you get use to it," Matthew moves towards the door allowing his physique to be framed in the door way; he wills Francis to look at him. 'See me, see me for what I am. I'm a man, recognize me.' He thinks desperately.

**_**_I thought once that maybe it was because I spent so much time with him that it was admiration. Francis was always so brave and charming. It seemed like he could talk to anyone. He always seemed so inviting and warm, never scared to reach out to people and make friends. I wanted to grow up and be like him. _**_**

France merely stands looking around, "Okay you want to eat downstairs that's fine with me."

He walks slowly to the door, but Matthew doesn't move. France stares at the younger man smiling broadly so that his eyes squeeze shut. This way he doesn't have to look at Matthew. A still silence hangs in the air, not the comfortable silence that creeps into all homes when sleep overtakes the residence, but the silence that occurs as a treasured piece of china has toppled from the counter onto the hard cold floor, the silence of anticipation. Eventually, he must open his eyes and see what is standing before him. Francis realizes now that he is only looking at Matthew's nose.

"He is taller than me..." Francis realizes heart conflicted between pride and pain. The fantasy of the shower seemed so ludicrous now. Matthew wasn't a small, delicate subordinate for Francis to carnally consume. Francis shakes he head "Preposterous, I mean look at him, he's all shoulders and abs; I'm sure he could easily take me without-" abruptly the train of thought was abandoned. Matthew had licked his lips and spoken.

"I'm sorry, Mattie, I didn't hear you," France finally manages smiling apologetically.

_**I'd sneak into his room sometimes and try on his clothes, try and wear my hair like his...but it never seemed right. Somehow it wasn't that I wanted to look like him. It was a different sort of feeling. I am me, but I wanted...him to...see me...like I saw him...**_

Matthew's eyes diminished at the phrase, the familiair knife of self consciousness twisting in his heart. He licked his lips, ducking his head to be on eye level with France, and said, "I asked what you were thinking."

"Oh, well just thinking how tall you've gotten!" France laughed, "I'm sure you've got a few illegitimate children around just from smiling at poor girls! Women love tall men!"

**_**_**_**_One day I just, started to see him differently. I noticed how he sat as he drank his wine, saw the way he licked the liquid from his lips, not wasting a drop. I watched him tie back his hair in the morning and saw the slope of his neck and the line of his jaw...and my body...wanted to touch him._**_**_**_**

Matthew set his jaw, swallowing roughly, and precedes to walk toward the kitchen.

"Oh don't be shy Mattie! You can tell Papa!" France strides after him laughing loudly, "You can tell Papa anything, but I respect your privacy! I'm absolutely certain that you are capable of having many, many women, but I'm sure that you're so lovely that you only date them one at a time. Maybe you are such a soft hearted gentleman maybe you are waiting for the right girl!"

The rambling comes unbidden, boisterous, awkward., and Matthew descends the stairs.

'Yes tell me all of it is pointless, tell me that I'm no good and perverted! Tell me that I'm filthy for thinking of you this way! Tell me you've known the love of so many women that you can't count them all! Tell me that you've even known men! Tell me something!' Francis' mind screams wildly as he finishes yelling incoherences of being open to hear about any love problems down the stairs.

'Tell me there is no hope,' he thinks gritting his teeth on the last stair.

**_**_I wanted to taste the wine from his lips, kiss that neck and jaw. Even now it's embarrassing to think about. How my heart filled up with all these feelings, ached with all this wanting and fear, and my mind painted all these images of reaching out, just closing the distance, contact..._**_**

As France catches up with him, smile in place. Matthew has already set his plate on the table and is now leaning over the sink looking down. He is nodding to himself as if confirming a choice.

'How can you say those things? How can you so blithely think that I would want anyone that wasn't you? Why can't you see me as a man!" Matthew raged inside.

"I...I...I have a game in a little bit. Let's eat quick so I can go warm up. You want to see me play right?" Canada's hands grip the counter until his knuckles are white.

"That sounds wonderful!" France beams back.

Francis walks over to the cabinet with the dishes and cups, trying to get the mugs for coffee. Matthew turns and looks at the other man. He looks so slight standing there. He is lithe and long, reaching for the mugs on the top self. Matthew watches as toe pointed and calves flexed. Francis leans forward, accentuating the slight curve at the bottom of his back, fullness swelling there between his hips. Matthew's mind manufactures a pristine moment where Francis and he are lovers enjoying the kitchen as only lovers can. Francis' pinned to the counter with Matthew behind him, grinding against him forcefully, teasing, seductive. The pale blonde curving backward and wrapping an arm around Matthew's neck, trailing bites along his jaw, forced to remain there until the dusty blonde allows a break in contact.

**_**_I still feel this way a lot of the time, but I don't know how to make him see my feelings. Telling him is the easiest of course. Just say it, just tell him...I love you. It's so weird to write it. I know if I said that to him...he'd just say, "I love you too, Mattie!" and smile, but not mean it the same way. I guess maybe I should try to show him..._**_**

The temptation is too much. Suddenly, Matthew is behind his off balance counterpart, pressing the older man into the counter. There is a moment where hips collide and chest meets back. A moment when Matthews lips draw near Francis' neck and hot breathe tickles his ear.

"You're right,"Matthew whispers, "I have gotten much taller than you." There is a pause, "broader too I think." The statement is seductive, there can be no question. The tremor of voice, a touch of huskiness, descending into a humming growl. Somehow the words are are completely innocent, but it's the way Matthew pushes his hips forward, curves his chest downward, pure predator, stalking prey.

The moment is frozen, Matthew breathes steadily into Francis's ear, clearly a sexual advance, clearly using his body to entice the other, clearly wanting the man to acknowledge him, if not as a lover, than at least as an adult capable of initiating intimacy.

Francis clutches the mugs in sweat drenched hands and easily sidesteps away, 'I am imagining this, he's just measuring his body with mine, children do that all the time. They always want to be tallest.'

The moment is broken, "You're right Mattie! I must have taken very good care of you for you to turn out so big and strong and athletic!"

**_**_I want him to call me Matthew. I want him to call me by my real name. I want to make him...look at me with burning eyes...The eyes that are consumed in the heat of lust and desire. I know that's what they are because I've seen those eyes on other people. I think I look at him that way too sometimes, but he doesn't notice. _**_**

**__**Matthew stands there, a man in his boxers, trying to ensnare his beloved, moving as a lover, but seen only as a child that is measuring his height. He moves towards his laundry closet and pulls on a pair of jeans and a red shirt. He quickly sets a place at the table for Francis and sits. He is seven years old again setting places and pouting as Francis brings the coffee, slips across from him. They eat in relative silence, polite conversation about travel and weather.

* * *

><p>Matthew slings his hockey bag over his shoulder, walking briskly toward the indoor rink. Francis walked behind him struggling to keep pace but talking nonstop. Something about the shower tiles being cold-Matthew didn't know-all he knew was that he needed to find a way to get Francis to see him as an adult. How was that suppose to happen? He'd practically seen him naked this morning and as the day was dragging on it didn't seem like physical proximity was doing much of anything. Matthew vaguely considered smacking Francis on the ass when they left his home-maybe the upfront approach was best.<p>

Matthew stops as he reached the end of the sidewalk, waiting for the pedestrian light to change. Francis sails right past him still talking, now about cold showers. Matthew sees him pass by as the car speeds toward him. People always describe moments like these moving in slow motion, but for Matthew his hand reaches out on it's own. His mind perceives it-the impending consequence of missing the man and the collision of flesh and fiberglass. Francis hurt and screaming in the street, blood everywhere, his mind watches the casualty unfold before him. While his mind panicked, the body did what the body of a man does upon seeing the person he loves most in danger-protects. Matthew's hand reaches out, instinctively, yanking the older man to him. Francis falls against him, held secure, as the car honks as it passes.

Francis can feel Matthew's heart pounding even through layers of outerwear that both parties are wearing. He smells him as the rush of the car passing creates a hurried breeze. The smell of sweet syrup, spicy shampoo, aromatic deodorant, and the scent that had been Matthew's since he was a child. Held there, clutched tightly against the taller man's chest, Francis' heart aches and swells and threatens to burst. Matthew turns him slowly, still holding him close, and looks him in the eye.

**_**_One day, I'll make him see me the way I see him. _**_**

"Please, be careful Francis,"

He's done it. He's said the name and invoked all the intimacy and familiarity the talisman can summon. Francis mouth falls a little open as Matthew looks past him, and takes his hand.

He keeps the older man's hand decisively. It's a gesture he can have, he can keep, this is his. The younger man laces his fingers quickly and firmly with those of the older man. He will not be denied, he will not be rejected here. They are Francis' hands, the hands that have known many lovers, many battles, held fine food and beautiful flowers. The hands that had cradled him in night terror and punished him in disobedience. These hands had almost slipped out of his grap in a moment.

**_**_One day he'll understand all the feelings in my heart...and he'll feel the same...at least that's what I hope. _**_**

Now, hands entwined, Matthew knew he was off balance, especially burdened with the bag, but it didn't matter. This was something he could use to still his raging heart. France would just see it as a child holding his parent's hand, but he would know. This would be where it would start, saying his name like an equal, taking his hand like a defender, this would be the foundation of his proclamation of love. Little by little these gestures would make it clear his feelings, if France couldn't see his physical advances, perhaps Francis could see his delicate ministrations of affection.

* * *

><p>Francis stares with prideful awe as Matthew flies across the ice. While other players were forcefully shoving and pushing one another, Matthew seems to always just slip under the check or sail past the shove. He skates gracefully, almost effortlessly, but rather than take shots, Matthew constantly acquires the puck to move it toward the goal, passing it away at the last moment. He was easily the most assisting person on the team, but whenever a teammate made a goal, the team never acknowledged his contribution. He seemed ever open and ever passing from one side to the other, but never taking the shot.<p>

'That's just like him,' Francis thinks, 'Always helping someone else, but never getting credit. He's always been so sweet and gentle.'

Francis smiled to himself as he wrings his hands. It worries him, watching his beloved boy on that ice with those men. Hockey was such a violent sport that he constantly worried about Matthew getting gravely injured-on television they made it seem like people lost teeth all the time-and with cheers like red ice and the constant fights-well Francis couldn't understand what the appeal was for Matthew. Watching him now though, it seemed a silly worry.

The darker blonde sails easily in his red and white uniform, and Francis has to admit he looked even more mature now. He wanted to yell, but the thought of embarrassing Matthew hampered him. He didn't want to hurt his chances with anyone or make things awkward with his teammates by behaving inappropriately. No matter how he thought about it, there was no way to yell, "Very Good Mattie!" and sound masculine as the occasion required. The older man decided that awkwardly clapping in the seats surrounded by girlfriends and college friends of the other players was the only acceptable practice.

Some of the women shot him glances of interest, waving provocatively. Francis winks and smiles politely but not overly inviting. Matthew had clearly deposited him here holding his hand. That meant something didn't it? Francis allows himself to retreat into his mind and ponder the matter. He'd held his hand almost the entire way to the rink.

'Obviously, the incident with the car had rattled Matthew, it was just a comfort since I almost got hurt,' he rationalized in his head, but even still, he hoped there was more to it than that. He looked down at his hand, long gone cold after Matthew's had had separated from it. He tried to concentrate and recall the exact pressure the exact heat of holding the young man's hand. When was the last time they had held hand? Matthew had been a boy, maybe just before his teens. Francis flexed his hand slightly remembering the small childish hand.

'He's gotten so big...'

The game continues with Matthews recreational team up by a point. Several scuffles broke out on the ice, but the referee, with Matthew in toe, would pull the teams apart. It seemed that one player, number 6 from the opposing team in blue, in particular, had decided that the rink would become his personal boxing ring. At one point, that player had shoved Matthew from behind causing him to slam face first into the side of the rink. Francis was on his feet quickly, fearing the worst, but Matthew simply got up, sailed towards number 6, Laclos it said on his jersey, stopping dead in front of him. Francis watched as the young Canadian tilted his head to the side and pointed a gloved finger at the other man. Matthew began skating backwards, eventually turning, and with that the other man lept toward him.

* * *

><p>"Look," Matthew said in his most neutral tone, "I'm not sure what's going on, but stop. There is no need to be that rough with anybody, okay? We're playing for fun, not to hurt each other"<p>

The words were simple enough-no one's manhood or mother was insulted, and thus Matthew assumed that it would be fine. He skated away, trying to return to the game. Matthew knew that Francis would be watching and there is no sense in worrying him. Just as his back was turned Laclos shoved him again and jumped on his back.

Matthew is suddenly being hit in the back, not that he can really feel it, the padding is pretty resilient, but that's not the point. He was more than polite in asking this man to not do this. He quickly rolled onto his back and did the unexpected. His pulled off his glove and took the other man's mask in his hand, pulling him down, at he same time he rolls his shoulder, topping the man. Once straddling him, he puts his mask to the other man's helmet.

Vaguely, Matthew hears Francis yelling in the commanding voice of his childhood, " Hey! Hey! Referee are you going to do something about those two! Number six is a menace! Get him out of the game!"

"Just don't! Okay! Just don't! Stop it! There's no reason to hurt each other." As he yells, he drives the helmets together. At this point, the referee has decided it's a good time to intervene. He pulls Matthew off of the other man without struggle. The glove and stick are recovered and the game continues.

Matthew returns to skating uninterrupted up and down the rink, but now he is furious.

'How dare that guy? How dare he? It's not like my day hasn't been hard enough without him adding to it! Dammit, I just wanted to play some hockey, burn some steam, but this jerk-" the young man's mind turned into a storm as he moved faster along the ice. What was once a casual flight of a bird has become the blitz of a hornet. Matthew now flies at the goalie with the puck alone, shooting shot after shot.

'How can Francis take me seriously if people go jumping on in a game,' Matthew's breathing came roughly, rapidly, powering him as he steals the puck from the opposing team repeatedly. His teammates sensing the shift in mood, block for him, dispensing with defenders easily.

No one could quiet seem to keep pace with him, but then that player crossed in front of him.

From the stands, Francis watched as the opposing player's skates toward Matthew, verse slightly to one side and extends his arm and stick. Francis watches in terror as Matthew is clothes lined against Laclos' arm. The young man's stick flies out of his hands and he cumples to the ice motionless.

**_**_One day he'll understand all the feelings in my heart...and he'll feel the same...at least that's what I hope. _**_**

* * *

><p>Author's Notes:<p>

Sorry, I think this chapter turned into another go between chapter-no real driving hotness. It was going to be longer, but my goal is to update at least every 5 days. When I think of Matthew now I think of FFXI Music Moongate (Memoro de la Stono) because that's the music I used this time to write him.

Majority of France's lines and actions are written to the Kingdom Hearts II Original Soundtrack Passion Orchestra mixes and Matthew to the vocal mixes-I abused the hell out of all the versions of Passion. The Dearly Beloved Soft edition is the soundtrack to Matthew's timid heart though.

Car thing is much more epic when you listen to Liberi Fatali...just saying

Lastly, not beta'd and not 100% proofed-exhausted, but wanted to get this chapter out since it's been cluttering my brain for a while.

Thanks to all of you who have read/reviewed/ added me to your update lists.


	5. Intimacy

Chapter 5: Intimacy

The screech from the alarm jolted Francis wake. His neck and shoulders are still stiff from sleeping in the chair next to Matthew's bed. It is now time to wake up Matthew; Francis stretches out his hand and clicks on the bedside lamp that sits across from the alarm clock. Matthew is so beautiful lying there. His hair hangs in his face, glasses left on at his insistance. Near his face, the white bear of childhood accompanied by the white bird herald.

White snow, white bear, white bird, white pillow, everything that surrounds Matthew is white. Francis' mind lingers on the thoughts as his head clears and awakes fully. The purity and goodness seemed to seep from the items into the younger man. His Mattie, the sweet good child.

'How did I let this happen?' Francis wonders as he allows the clock to cry on as he wakes the other man.

"Mattie, " he whispers softly, reaching out his hand gently shaking sleeping man, "Mattie it's time to get up and walk around."

Beneath sheets and blankets, nestling against the soft mattress and luxurious pillow, Matthew lies in a dense fog. He knows he must wake up, he knows he must get up, but he finds the desire to return to consciousness almost too difficult. He feels cold, and then strong arms pulling him forward, tilting him to the side. Skin makes contact with skin, and Matthew can't help but relish in the tingle the radiates from the touch.

The warmth of Francis' hand on his body pulls him from the stupor. He leans his head towards the older man, resting it lightly on the crown. Matthew's height is now proving problematic as Francis' struggles to arrange the younger's weight in a comfortable way. The taller man can feel the heated, struggling breath of the older against his neck. A hum turns moan escapes his his mouth.

"Did I hurt you? I'm sorry," Francis asks startled. He is looking up at the taller man, his forehead resting against the other's cheek.

"No," Mattew nuzzles the smaller man's forehead with his cheek, luxuriating in the smoothness. He breathes in the faint rose and natural smell of Francis as me moves. Faintly Matthew wonders if it isn't a dream-a dream that his traumatized brain is feeding him while he's in a comma somewhere.

The doctor's words ring in Francis' ears as he supports Mattie.

_**'You have to stay with him the first 24 hours at minimum. You can let him sleep, but you have to wake him up every 2-3 hours for the first 12 hours. You need to pay special attention to his behavior and ask him simple questions.'**_

"So, who am I, and where do you think I'm taking you?"

"Again? Do we have to? I told you the last time that I was fine."

"Yes," Francis held Matthew close, high around the waist, even though the younger man was clearly walking under his own power, "I have to be sure that you're not really hurt—you do have a concussion. So, who am I, and where do you think I'm taking you?"

"You are Francis, and we are going to the bathroom."

"And why are we going to the bathroom?"

"Because the doctor told you that I may need to vomit at some point."

"Very good, and today is?" Francis arms let go as Matthew crossed the threshold. The door closes softly behind him. As he waits, he hears Matthew relieve himself and answers the question.

"Well I'm not sure. I know the day that I got hurt was December 1st, and I think it's past midnight so it must be December 2nd? There now, does that prove I'm okay?"

"Do you have a head ache?"

**_"If he complains of a head ache you can only give him acetaminophen but don't give him aspirin, ibuprofen, or naproxen."_**

"No, I don't have a headache. I'm just tired." The door swings open, and Matthew leans in the door frame. "I really don't like having to get up every few hours."

"Doctor's orders Mattie." Francis tries not to stare at the young man silhouetted, shirtless in the doorway. He can't do this right now he has to focus. He has to take care of Matthew and not do anything. He has to be an adult and control his thoughts. 'Mattie is depending on me,' he thinks.

Matthew steps provocatively forward, dipping his head low to meet Francis eye to eye. He sees that the older man's eyes have patches of dark green and yellow beneath them and are still puffy from sleep. To anyone else they may have looked positively frightening, to Matthew they only urge him on.

'This is real intimacy, seeing someone struggle through sleep to care for you, seeing someone at their worst.' Their breath mingles there, breathing in and out. Francis' inhales the sweet maple tinged sent that clings to the smell of the younger man's body, still musky from the match. Matthew can almost taste Francis' essence as their breath entwines, combines, makes love between them.

"Yeah, yeah I know, doctors orders. So now what do we have to do?" The younger man licks his lips.

Francis can't help but stare at the pink muscle that quickly darts across Matthew's lips, leaving a gleaming trail in its absence. He feels himself begin to lean forward, the desire to surrender to desire, confess longing and need almost overwhelming him, almost. He stops himself. 'God, what are you thinking? You would do that to him? At all is unbelievable, but while he's hurt, you really are pathetic!' He chides himself, stepping away, he smiles brightly.

**_"Be very careful with him. Concussions can have varying effects on people. Some nice people become easily moody or irritable, lose hearing and vision, sometimes there are even changes in personality or behavior."_**

"Well, I suppose we can talk or have a cocoa or anything really." He nods to punctuate the statement to the taller man. 'Yes, anything because in my mind watching you now can only process the maddening desire to take you, let you take me, I'm not even close to being sure what I want. You, just you, you,' Francis' mind races on as he steps backwards away.

"Will you tell me what happened while I was knocked out? While you were at the hospital?" Matthew worries about how Francis had managed to get him to the hospital.

"Oh no, you know, there is really no need to discuss that," Francis says walking down the hallway towards the stairs, "Let's make some hot chocolate, yes?"

There was no possible way to tell Matthew what had happen in the hospital.

* * *

><p><em>Matthew was unconscious when they had put him in the ambulance. Francis was almost left behind, but he'd managed to dodge the outstretched arm of the first paramedic and slam the door shut behind him with a quick grab of his hand.<em>

_"What's his name?" The paramedic asked staring at Francis. His hands moving quickly pulling out a penlight and shining it in Matthew's eyes._

_"Matthew. Matthew Williams." The man's hand leapt to Matthew's wrist, looking for the pulse._

_"Matthew! Hey Matthew can you hear me! I'm with your friend-"_

_"Francis," he finishes for the older man._

_"Francis. And I think we'd both really like it if you came to."_

_After the siren start sounding, Matthew consciousness returns momentarily only to empty the contents of his stomach over the side of the stretcher._

_His face looks ashen as he rests once again on the raised surface of the stretcher. He moans groggily._

_The paramedic shakes his head, furrowing his eyebrows, but continues to measure and record Matthew's vital signs._

_"Francis" a scratchy voice came from the stretcher._

_Francis leans forward to hear, as Matthew reaches up his hand. Francis takes the hand and holds it tightly._

_"I'm here, Mattie, I'm here."_

_"I'm sorry."_

_"Mattie, for what?"_

_"I'm sorry I got hurt, how you're worried."_

_"Shhhh this isn't your fault."_

* * *

><p>"Come on so I can help you down the stairs!" Francis calls over his shoulder to Matthew. On opposite ends of the hallway, he almost feels at ease. He can almost allow himself to let his guard down. Almost.<p>

"I can make it on my own," the taller man replies. 'This is wonderful,' he thinks, 'Now I'm back even farther. Before he treated me like a child, now I'm also an invalid. How will I ever get this perception to change?'

* * *

><p><em>The doctor eventually came from the back and scanned the room, eyes resting on Francis.<em>

_"Hi, I'm Dr. Romero, you came in with the man who had the accident at the hockey rink, correct?"_

_"Yes, how is he?"_

_"Well Mr..."_

_"Boonefoy. Francis Bonnefoy"_

_"Mr. Bonnefoy, I want to be candid here. He's in stable condition, and his scans seem to be fine. According to the paramedics, he was only out for about 6 minutes, which is a little longer than we'd have preferred, but not terrible. The vomiting was a concern, but as I said, the tests show that he is fine."_

_"Oh thank God." the tight knot that had formed in Francis' chest and stomach releases slowly._

_"Now, there are some things I need to discuss with his immediate family." The doctor pauses and then after an awkward silence, "Do you know where we might reach them?"_

_"Well, actually, besides a brother in America, I'm the closest thing he has to family. We've known each other since we were children. I'm not exactly sure how to get in contact with his brother right now."_

_"Ah, I see...well," the doctor shifts uncomfortably, "I'm not really suppose to..."_

_"Please?"_

* * *

><p>Matthew walks slowly and steadily towards the stairs, sidestepping around Francis, using the banister to support his weight. The younger man grasps the other's hand decisively, pulling him along down the stairs. The hand felt soft and warm, and as he reaches the bottom stair, he brings Francis in front of him, lifting the hand up to his lips, and kisses it.<p>

"Thank you for staying with me," He speaks the words slowly, deliberately. His voice was not the voice of a weak child trying to apologize for being a bother-not like the child in the ambulance. This voice, his man's voice, was filled with gratitude, but it was also the voice of a man slightly distracted. Francis almost expects Matthew to say 'how can I ever thank you' so they can have the cliched conversation via innuendo that would result with both parties molded against one another naked and writhing for the next several hours.

Francis feels a chill run down his arm and heat flood his face, unsure of what to do. Was he imagining this? Was he dreaming this? Francis' hand hangs between them. Matthew's eyes peering over the hand. The younger man licks his lips, never breaking eye contact, and kisses the hand again.

The older man feels his body react against his will, aroused at the boldness. Yet, doubt clings to him as his heart thunders in his chest and pulse deafens him. Is it boldness, or is it just innocent gestures that are being misconstrued. He is ill, he just woke up, he might still be groggy. He feels the ache just beneath his lower abdomen as blood begins to move there. Those eyes, those deep blue eyes holding his, those hooded eyes.

Francis slowly rearranges the hands, holding Matthew's eyes for a moment. The taller man feels the heat bloom in the pit of his stomach. Excitement begins to overtake him, as the possibility dawns on him that the older man may now understand his feelings and be reciprocating. Francis realizes he's been holding his breathe now, allows his eyes to dart downward as he places his lips quickly against the younger man's knuckles.

"Come on," Francis breathes onto the other's skin. "Let's make hot chocolate." He can feel his body grow cold as he releases the hand. The ache and throb commanding him to latch on to the taller man, but his mind screaming to put distance between them.

"Do you remember that time we all went to the beach when you were just before you were a teenager?" He asks as he crosses into the kitchen.

* * *

><p><em>"Well you see, It's against our policy to just give out information about our patients-<em>

_"Yes, I understand," Francis tried to be charming and polite, "but in this situation I'm all he has."_

_"I'm sorry, but I-"_

_"Look," Francis shoves his hand into his pocket and pulls out his wallet, pulling out a battered photo, "Do you see that?" Francis quickly shoves a battered photo from his wallet. In the photo a young adolescent Alfred stands with his arms hanging around Francis and Matthews necks. The three are on the beach, shirtless grinning. "Sir, please I really just need to know what's going on with my friend. None of us have parents, and I've known him his entire life. I don't care about the legal issues you may have. If Matthew were conscious, he would tell you that I'm the one who'll be taking care of him while he's ill, but he's not, so just tell me what's going on."_

* * *

><p>Matthew couldn't stand it any longer. Deprived of sleep, recovering from injury, here is Matthew William's breaking point. He had seen battles and remained calm, been shunned by nations and endeavored to continue on, just today he'd come into a face first collision with a hockey stick and, besides a forced nap and losing his breakfast, he was fine. Yet here, now in his own home, clearly ready to lose himself in the kiss and embrace of his love, he would not be able to endure rejection.<p>

"Stop it."He said with absolute authority.

"Stop what Mattie?"

"Stop brushing me aside. Don't you understand?" Matthew locks eyes with the older man.

Francis sees it there, the quiet anger brewing mixed with something else. "Matthew, you're not yourself."

"No, don't you see I'm perfectly myself."

With that, the taller man, crosses the room, and swoops down claiming the lips of the man in front of him. His kiss speaks with the eloquence that his mind can not muster. The gentle insistance demanding that the receiver yield, but the lips were not dominant in their confidence. The collision of lips beseeching the receiver to believe in the love ready to pour forth from them, both in word and in deed. Matthew's hand slowly slipped to the back of Francis' neck pulling him gently forward. The younger man opening his mouth slightly, and allowing the tip of his tongue to caress Francis' lip, begging entrance. The kiss deepens, but remains trepidacious, as Francis' own hands, snaking around Matthew's waist, pull the taller man's body closer.

The kiss is slow, deliberate, Matthew setting the pace. He needs the kiss to be perfect, he needs the kiss to tell Francis everything. The kiss must not be hurried or lost in its own passion. This kiss is Matthew's vow as a lover. The promise of methodical, cautious, meticulous affection. Matthew's lips move against Francis' steadily drawing the soft, short moans from the other man. Matthew's heart soars as his arm wrap around the shorter man pressing their bodies together. He felt himself almost divorce from his true body, nothing more than warmth where his body met Francis', lips and tongues moving together.

Francis' head swam as the kiss stretches on. Matthew is willful, but gentle in his advance. Francis fights to allow Matthew to lead, his own passion threatening to consume him, yet Matthew's conscientious pauses force the older man to begin to drown in the haze of submission, whimpers escaping his mouth involuntarily as Matthew pauses or draws back.

It was in one of those moments where Matthew draws back that Francis returned to himself.

'This is wrong,' his mind rails, as his hands pushed forcefully against the younger man. He takes his head into his hands looking at the kitchen floor.

"I'm sorry. I'm sorry, Mattie. I'm sorry. I shouldn't have let that happen. Mattie, God, I'm so sorry." He rambles tears already falling.

Matthew shakes his head confused. Had he done something wrong? Was he too controlling? Not passionate enough? Oh God, had he forced himself on the other man?

"Francis, I don't understand."

"Mattie, I just, please don't do that again, okay?"

Matthew stands in the cold kitchen, his body on fire, his senses screaming for the return of the other man.

"You know that I love you, don't you?" He says the words helplessly without looking at the shorter man.

"Don't say that! You don't mean that. It's your injury. You don't love me like that. Mattie, please, please Mattie," Francis felt the world slip away from him. This is what he wanted most in the world. To have the love of this man, to be his lover, to know him in all ways, but not like this. Not while his mind is damaged, not while it is a delusion, a lie, a deception. He sunk to the floor sobbing uncontrollably, "Please Mattie don't say that again. I can't, I can't live that way!"

There, in the wake of Matthew's confession and kiss, Francis sobs on the kitchen floor screaming 'I can't' over and over again. There, in the wake of Francis' rejection Matthew takes the older man, holds him, hushes him, rocks him, and comforts him with tears in pooling in his own eyes.

'This is true intimacy' Matthew thinks clinging to the broken man.

* * *

><p><em><strong>"One last word of warning Mr. Bonnefoy., " Dr. Romero sighed, "there may be changes in his personality, be on the alert. Do everything you can to remind him of his true self.<strong>_

* * *

><p><em>Author's Note: First I am so sorry for the wait. Finals and such can kill anyone's creativity. Also, this chapter was impossible to write. This is actually the 3rd version. It originally looked nothing like this. I hope that the horizontal lines aren't too obtrusive.<em>

_This is pretty much a product of 4 hours nonstop. No beta again and barely read over. If something is glaringly bad it will be corrected soon, but I just HAD to publish it tonight-I was compelled. _

_Please feel free to review critically-I'm critical in my reviews. For those of you awaiting the AmeLith fic-sorry the amount of research that one requires haha leaves me drained. Before Christmas there will be another chapter. _

_Score Kyle L's rendition of The Braveheart theme, Kingdom Heart's Kairi_

_Research__ mostly taken from The U.S. National Library of Medicine-I have no medical training so if something is just plain wrong-PLEASE LET ME KNOW._


End file.
